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From
the Body of the Green Girl, 2008,
HappenStance
Press, ISBN 978-1-905939-24-4
Ice
Our first night on
the glass mountain
moonlight
scrambles planes of ice
into
a chaos of blinding slabs, tossed
and
angled by a god who cannot decide
how
to separate light from dark,
who
has scattered the searing oblongs
and
left them till later.
Towards
dawn we hear the helicopter.
It
flickers across the moon, printing
a
jittery shadow on the ice, an angel
with
rotating wings moving over the mountain,
its
plainsong loud, deafening, fainter, gone.
The
wavering god tackles the light/dark
problem
again, tips the sun over a crest,
considers
the way glare bounces.
There
is no point in praying.
Paula Jennings
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